He keeps running, trying to catch up to the action but also slowly being left behind. Cleanup isn't a role the man feels comfortable being thrust on him, but no other choice is presenting itself at the moment.

Lyun: "...-ood job." A couple quiet words can be heard as he stomps his way past Etor on that stairway, occupying a good portion of it with his bigger frame. One swing of his battleaxe is more than enough to kill the Yeek, who is fortunately more focused on the younger warrior in front of him.

The last azure freak falls to the cracked ancient stairs with a slick thud. The silent brute's axe hefted from the corpse with a similar sound and a certain silence falls over the Yeek-vandalized structure. All that seems to remain in the silence that befalls the place are the stone carven fetishes and idols of these creatures' Petrified God. And the Hellions of course, only a tinge worse for wear than the moment they stepped foot in the field, still. . . This payoff better be worth it.

Zarif and Makeen realize it at once; the job isn't finished. At first it's the heavy breaths and scratching of claws against the brickwork, a lone Yeek rears its ugly head just long enough past the corner to make note of their slaughtered ilk before in a terrified gait, retreating just behind it. Maybe they'd take potshots, maybe not. . . The Hellions of Gir hadn't survived this long in the harsh dunes and rocky plains of Akkad for being ones to take chances.

Gesties: "Ho there. . !"

A voice calls, dry and cracked. Yet still it bears all the strength it possibly can echoing down the olde hall. Before Zarif can muster Salador to charge it reaches them.

Gesties: "My brothers!" The voice continues to erupt from behind rusted makeshift bars of wood and stone, a Yeek construction and far sturdier than it looks. Before the speaker can even bring his eyes to bear upon the Hellions he continues, "I knew you would not leave me for dead!" His words are as uplifted as one could possibly be given the situation. "Did you find our quarry down there?" He asks, one could now make out his nose and bushy facial hair peeking through the caged room he's put away in.

Ashür: "You have studied under Iddin, have you not?" The bandit asks the young thief whom he sallies up behind, allowing the rest of their companions the vanguard forward. "I trust you know of this rune?" He adds, yet the question is rhetorical as he places the Yeek's fetish, a locus for Theurgy, into Makeen's hand. He says nothing more after this, rather his sunken eyes wander to the spiraling stair just below, no doubt wondering what might lurk therein. . . And just what their employer is seeking here.

Kastilus continues heaping on the praise as he at last traipses with abandon over the splatter gore of the little blue imps, and at once his mind is taken by the architecture and hidden meanings among the worn glyphic Ziggurat. Paying little mind to his hired band of cutthroats as they put a period on this little endeavor.

After getting a good look at the battlefield, Siris was surprised to notice that between the efforts of himself and his allies the creatures had already been completely defeated.

Siris: Huh, this was even easier than expected.

While Siris's self confidence increased even more than it originally was, he heard what sounded like a man yelling. It was coming from one of the corridores, but after he saw some of his allies go towards the noise he figured there was no reason to bother himself going to check it out as well.

Seeing a staircase nearby, Siris begins to curiously walk towards it.

This was a crucial moment for Etor. Depending on what his next actions and words were the rest of his life would be altered forever. The whole mission had culminated to this single moment and now that it had arrived Etor was not one to shy away from destiny.


Etor: "Ood Job too Lyun!"

Etor had flashed the stoic mammoth of a man a wide earnest smile. He quickly killed the smile and shuffled past Lyun into the ruins. Lingering in the moment would only cheapen it so Etor got back to the objective at hand. He didn't progress much farther into the temple when he heard the faint yells of a man and saw Siris investigating some stairs.

Etor: "So much going on in here."

The brute keeps walking without much pause after the earlier kill. He gives Etor a nod in passing, marking the end of their interaction. Encouragement without snark is a rare commodity in the world of mercenaries and, despite not being talkative, Lyun has never believed tough love to truly work. The kid did his part and that is plenty.

Despite his companions easing up as most creatures lay in a pool of their own blood, he remains focused. His faster allies probably won't need his help. With nothing else going on, however, "probably" isn't good enough for him.

Iddin breathes deeply, bringing himself to the end of his incantation. Truly, it is a grand experience to ascend into such a higher state of being where he can feel at one with the greatest god. However, the servile world of man sadly requires focus of its own. The last of his bizarre ritual's effects still linger in the air. Iddin carefully prances around the dead Yeeks, making sure not to stain his robes with their blood. The priest contorts quickly, creating a brief whistle, and calls to his companions.

Iddin: "My allies! Bring your weary bodies, worn by fighting, to my side. I will bring you peace with the grace of Zuzu. Come and let not cruel wounds do what your foes could not."

A job well done, or perhaps not. Just as he began to put down his bow, he spotted something. Though the bulk of the fell-beasties lay defeated at their feet, out of the corner of his eye, Zarif could see one last creature turn the corner down the hall.

Zarif: "Hail, Ma-keen! Be careful, another lays in wait ahead!"
He shouts, pointing at the corner the Yeek had just rounded.

Not one to leave a job unfinished, Zarif kicked Salador into action, flying down the crumbling ancient hallway in a few bounds, bow drawn and at the ready. He stops right in front of the barred door. Hearing the withered voice, he looks into the room from Salador's back.

Zarif: "I know you not, but its seems to be your lucky day friend. Who... ah I see. You're one of Shůlaar's band, aren't you?"
He exclaims, giving a smile before glancing at the corner, getting ready for an attack.

Echoing through those sun-cracked blocks of sandstone is the final shriek of the abomination, it darts back from where the thin hall meets the rest, the slick plaps of its footfalls resound all the same.

A clatter -- it's gnarled wooden bow is discarded to the broken tiles, and its quiver of long arrows as well, a few whimpering sounds can be heard around the corner. . . It seemed this day that the Petrified God, Zuug'Agblish, the unforgiving one gives no blessings to its corrupted children this day.

Weakly, the shaven headed sellsword draws himself away from the bars, he nearly falls back over the lockbox behind him. Those eyes of his strain and manage to make out the symbol emblazoned upon Salador's numnah -- An orange to crimson hound of twin heads. It's body is elongated and haunched, yet gaunt, brimming with the ferocity of the band known as the Hellions of Gir.

This man, the one captured by these Yeeks is a member of another strong band of mercenaries in Akkadia by the name of Shůlaar's Scorpions. It is said that though they are twice the men stronger, any deep pursed administrator that hires one will find their opposition hiring the other. As so they are oft ones to clash in constant struggle, rivalry and grudges run deep between the two. Yet it is not unknown for them to be aligned upon the same cause, where the coin is right.

Gesties: "H-Hellions?" The man wheezes before a scowl draws true upon his pale face, with a will he moves for the door again, "Must've been waiting for us in that hole huh?!" He roars, pressing his shoulder against the crude cage, "Ambushed and slaughtered my family didn't ya sand-lickers!?" He smashes the bars again before his strength fails him. ". . . Damn that sage." He mutters.

Ashür: "Keep a good eye o' stout one." The desperado gives Siris's armored side a strong elbow before hobbling himself just a little ways down the hall. All the while those scrupulous eyes fall upon each of the Hellions, from Lyun, to Etor, to Iddin. And there they rest.

Ashür: "Hallowed man." He adresses Iddin, but those words are sure to find their way to the rest. "Far too reckless an endeavor, this. I expect the price you negotiated to be an amenable one. . ?" With a light creak of a grin he moves to the priest of the Glass God and quickly unstraps the abdomen of his boiled leather. A four-pronged gash ran deep there, the nasty claws of the Yeeks. His gaze is an expectant one.

The foreigner's sympathetic smile withered at the captive's ungrateful remark. Zarif turned away from him, hearing the sound of wood dropping to the ground around the bend, along with a pathetic whimpering sound. The merchant almost felt worse for that detestable creature than the one behind the bars.

Zarif: "I don't kill anyone unless my comrades and I been contracted and paid to do so. Surely one of Shulaar's knows something as simple as that."
The merchant looked back at the man, who's scowl didn't drop.

Zarif: "Though, if it is your will, we would be more than happy to leave you in your cell. Under the laws set down by the Great King Hammurabi in the dawn of days, such a thing is not murder."
With that, Zarif kicked off down the hall, rounding the bend, pulling out the great longspear strapped to the side of Salador.

The spear was quite heavy, noticeably slowing him down, but against the Yeek cowering in the corner, it made little difference. All it took was one clean thrust through the throat as the dromedary came to a halt at the end of the hall, and the Yeek was finished. It let out a wet whimper as it slid off his lance and onto the floor, dead.



With that, it seemed the job really was done. It had been quick, and clean, with no losses, can't get much better than that. All that remained was to take any loot that could be found, deal with that foul-mouthed captive, and let their client look around.

For the first time, Zarif has really put in some martial might this mission. Having done so, he felt like his skills had improved a bit.

This is was probably the first time Siris had been called Stout, he took it as proof that his strength was finally beginning to be noticed. Looking to further prove his strength, Siris loudly yells towards Ashür, seemingly interrupting his and Iddin’s conversation.

Siris: “Hey Ashür, instead of keeping an eye out would it be alright if I just went downstairs and finished the rest of the enemies by myself? It’d be faster!”



Ashür: "Siris" He calmly proclaims with wary look "I relish the day to see all that confidence drain from your eyes, but it won't be this day. . ."

He winces as Iddin goes to work on Ashür's wounds

Ashür: "Keep what little wits you've got about you and stand guard."



Siris: “No need to be such an ass about it" Siris mutters before taking a seat on the first stair of the staircase and begins to take a look at his injuries

He keeps moving, choosing to mostly ignore his allies' banter as he walks past them and to the left. Taking a breather and mending one's wounds he understands, but standing idly by...

They would learn. Once is enough. One ambush, one death, one regret. All rookies learn, eventually, provided they don't become someone else's lesson.

Gesties: "W-Wait!"

The voice of the rival merc pangs out like the pain in his weakened bones. Both cracked knuckles again come around the Yeek-built bars again as the final whimper of the beasts comes to a sad end. A new revelation comes across his face as Zarif says his piece.

"Please, Hellions. . ." He again wheezes, a dry cough from his cell while Makeen comes into sight. "My brothers and I were hired to delve this place, but a full day has come and gone. . ." As his eyes barely catch the young bronzed thief, he humbles himself before them, "Leave me in this cell! I care not!" Gathering strength he continues, "But I beg of you! Hellions. . . Tell me they yet live!"

Iddin nods as Ashür comes to him. It is time to earn his bread as a healer and ensure the unit stays fully operational. The devout believer silently picks up sand and blows it into the air around Ashür, creating a small dust cloud over his wounds. Iddin smoothly shakes his staff, creating a soft hum, and utters a few words of prayer. They aren't necessary for the rite, but Iddin would never disclose that freely.

Iddin: "Let Zuzu continue his grand design of eternal perfection. Let this man be returned to what he once was, so that he is prepared to rise and serve higher beings once again. Make the debris of the world beautiful, and let it do this glorious work."

Iddin surveys the rest of the group as the rite takes place. This process will take a bit more time, and certainly more prolonged pain, but will not stress someone's body and mind as much as the combat healing does. It is best to keep the mercenaries healthy and in service for a longer time, after all. He talks with Ashür while continuing the process.

Iddin: "I have not failed to negotiate fair prices in the past, have I? Rest assured, you shall have your share of fortune when the toil is done. On that note, I hope that you have tactics prepared for our further advance. On other matters..."

Iddin sighs derisively at Gesties' cry and looks towards Sirius.

Iddin: "I understand the impatience that one feels in their proudest years. However, take this beast's bellowing as a cautionary tale. A band such as theirs plays less carefully than we do, with their greater numbers, and apparently gives buffoons commands."

Iddin finishes his lecture to Sirius and calls out to the rest as he finishes healing Ashür.

Iddin: "Tend not your own wounds; come for proper treatment. Work is of little purpose if you descend to the great city below before receiving rewards."

From within the confines of the old, crumpled little lockbox are some relatively modern armaments -- No doubt gathered equipment from any number of the blue little cretins raids on more civilized folk. Even so, they won't be needing it any longer.

The man by now is rightly upon his rear, both bruised palms laying down across that cool sandstone. Surprise is written across his furrowed brow, not only is a mere child sending a fright through him, but the boy's peerless just as the rest of the Hellions. He gathers some willfulness, seeing now the cell door is open and Makeen is busy enamored with the spoils of war, the Scorpion nearly rises to for a dash. Only for the gentle clopping of Salador's hooves to halt him yet again. Even more frightening perhaps for the unarmed loud mouth was that lance, oozing the putrid blood of Yeeks.

Gesties: "H-Hellion, that is my equipment there you've pilfered. . ." He says straightening himself out. "Would you lot afford me the pity of allowing me to join your incursion further in, that I may again meet with my brothers?" He can't help but add with a stammer, "You know that Shulaar's Band would do the same for you! Even if we're dreadful foes. . ."

The outlander nodded to the theif, absentmindedly pointing the heavy longspear in the dusty captive's general direction. Zarif considered, his mind elsewhere as the priest spoke down the hall. He sure is an ungrateful little worm. But... there was a labor shortage in Akkad, wasn't there? With such demand for slaves... yes, even a sorry lout like this could fetch quite a price!

Zarif: Oi, Iddin, priest! Perhaps you are being too hasty, eh? He'd cost us only, what, a week or so in rations? We could make enough off him to pay that back at least... three-fold? Four, if the tax collector is in the countryside. Think of the profits... prophet!

The merchant smiled at his wit, feeling slightly proud of using wordplay in this strange land's tongue. He hoped his accent hadn't butchered his meaning. Despite the joke though, his gaze was serious. After all, a merchant like him always takes matters of sale and trade seriously.

Zarif: Plus, it's a body between us and any attacker. Better this lout take a spear in the gut than one of us, eh?

Gesties sneered, even as he knew his life hung by a thread, a thread that dangled precariously in the hands of the Hellions of Gir, a thread that threatened to make him a marionette. But even by his own admission, the battered man would sooner be puppeted by his enemies than rot in a crumbling cage stinking of Yeek shit and festering with dune roaches.

Gesties: "Bah! Sell me if you please, you'd be right to do so with a hide as valuable as mine. Har-har-har!"

Managing to find some fire in his belly once more, he reaches for his affects that Makeen is so eagerly fawning over, no doubt imagining what he could exchange the blade for, let along the innovative bow and its masterful make. With the smallest chagrin, the young rogue pushes the sword onto Gesties, but elects to keep the crossbow and its attache of bolts. Suddenly the man's fire dies down, realizing his place once more at the tip of Zarif's spear. A fool he'd be to even dream of fighting back. . . He takes the sickle-sword and gestures for the Merchant to lead the way. And he is obliged.

Gesties: "Don't worry, dont'cha worry, smart to keep that bow, means I can't shoot ya in the back. . ." The foreign figure manages to bleat, shuffling alongside Salador toward the main group as Iddin picks their glassen wounds. As his eyes, sunken from abuse by the little blue gremlins come across the Hellions proper, namely the priest, Lyun, and Ashur, he manages to produce, "I recognize you. Oi, didn't we kick yer asses at Akshak?" But before any of them can respond, the archaeologist finally makes his way up to the central stair leading down to the depths of the Ziggurat.

Kastalus: "Stellar work dear Hellions. I see that rumours of your valiance were not unfounded." The older fellow cranes his neck ever in slight and raises an eyebrow toward the shaven-headed mercenary in royal purples, denoting their band's wealth who returns a similarly quizzical look. He clears his throat, an expression changed after the briefest of pauses, "Even greater than rumored! Seven become eight with naught but a little blood. . . Come Hellions, let us bear witness to the glory of days long past." He takes his first gently, yet excited stride down a cracked sandstone step, steeped in the filth of the Petrified God's children, only to be stopped in kind by the lanky bandit.

Ashür: "Do not be so eagre, our honoured patron, these valiant men can't protect you if it's your scholarly gut that takes the first spear."

Kastalus: "Ah. Of course. . . Danger. That is the business of your lot, and not mine." He halts himself at the top of the stairs, hands tensing back and forth 'neath his robes for the anticipation of this endeavor.

Ashür: "Right. . . Are we all ready boys?" Ashür asks aloud, rhetorically so knowing full well nothing would impede the reckless few after the high of their victory. Then, without further delay, they descend.

Ashür: "Don't get too far ahead, meat." The desperado coos, his words dripping with a virulent venom and wry humour both. "Keep that valuable hide where we can see it." He adds, taking a few steps after the tamed Scorpion and gesturing Etor and Makeen both to keep tight abaft. More for their enamored benefactor than their own sake, though he may not reveal it, Ashür knows full well the two boys can handle themselves when the going gets tough. Captain Nasir wouldn't have brought them along if it were any other way.

Kastalus: "Fascinating, truly fascinating. . ." The archeologist's words saunter off into the darkness, he pays no mind to the affairs of the Hellions whilst he runs a palm across the dusty sandstone walls. By mere tallow candlelight he probes the pictograms embedded and worn away by time and all manner of beast that have used this place as their shelter. "A grudge laid bear. . ." He mutters, making some sense of the images perhaps.

Cramped and cloistered tunnels of an age long past, where the idea of archetechture was merely an afterthought in these lands have led Iddin, Lyun, Zarif, and Siris to split off from the others, though they've little expectations of the divergence being for long. Afterall, this crumbling structure couldn't possibly be all that spacious within. . . The stench of Yeek still lingers in the air, whether for this is their den and their oily skins have rubbed off on it, or for there to be a veritable horde awaiting within readying an ambush in din of light. Yet there is another scent in the air, one the Hellions too are keen of -- the distinct metallic tinge of blood lingers here. Just what fate have Shulaar's Scorpions come to?
Eventually, the four men break out from the ruinous corridors into a small chamber, their minimal light resounding off the priest's implements revealing chiseled images, crudely depicting men of war marching forth, not so unlike they. At the end of the room a pile of rock and rubble block what was likely once a small threshold beyond.